


The Comfort of Your Arms

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Misery, Sickfic, Sobbing, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:53:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don experiences his first migraine and hates every minute, eventually bursting into tears. It's a good thing Alan is there with him and his fatherly genes are still up and running.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Comfort of Your Arms

It was two in the afternoon. Don could hear someone knocking at his apartment door, but he ignored it. He knew that as soon as he stood up to answer he would puke and probably pass out like he had before. His floor reeked like anything and everything, but Don was in too much pain to clean it up.

“Don!” called the visitor impatiently. “Let me in!”

Don recognized his father’s voice, muffled though it was by the thunderous pounding in his ears.

“Coming,” Don mumbled, dragging himself off the bed and to the door.

“Wow,” was the first word Alan Eppes spoke. “I see now why you canceled our lunch—you look horrible.”

Don did indeed. His face was haggard and wan, aside from the profoundly dark rings beneath his eyes. He was dressed haphazardly in a loose-fitting tee, sleep shorts, and fuzzy maroon socks that Margaret, Don’s mother, had given him for a long-ago Christmas.

Groaning as he shielded his eyes from the agonizingly brilliant light, Don murmured feebly, “Come in if you dare. What are you doing here?” Without waiting for a response, Don turned his back and shuffled toward the bed, flopping facedown.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Alan stated exasperatedly as he followed his son into the apartment.

“I muted it,” Don sighed wearily. The high-pitched ringing had sent harpoons of agony into his ears.

“Well, you weren’t answering, so I just decided to come—Don, that...that’s disgusting.”

Don knew Alan was talking about the floor. The FBI agent moaned, burying his face in the pillow. “I don’t even care, Dad. That light _really_ hurts my head; close the door, will you?”

Alan obediently nudged the door closed with his shoe and then turned his attention to the floor. “Have you got any cleaning solution in your kitchen? Where is your kitchen, anyway? I can’t find it in all this clutter.”

“I told you: I don’t care!” Don lamented, curling into a tight fetal position. He was in such shameful agony that he felt tears gather on his eyelashes. Charlie used to get migraines when he thought too hard. Don had never truly understood the misery his brother went through every time it happened. Tormented whimpers surfaced in Don’s throat, and he started to quiver.

Alan turned on his heel, realizing the need for concern. “Donny?” That only made Don shake harder; his dad only called him ‘Donny’ in a tentative moment. Alan felt his fatherly instincts stir as Don—always composed, emotionally walled, never-cry-in-front-of-anyone Don—burst into tears.

Don had his back to his father so the only thing he’d see with his humiliatingly blurred gaze was the drab gray wall. He sobbed wretchedly, hiding his face in his blanket like he was again a child. Then there were strong arms working their way around him. Don didn’t fight against it; he embraced it, letting himself be drawn into comfort.

After a long while the torrents slowed, but crying had only made Don’s head ache worse. He grabbed the plastic bowl on his nightstand and allowed the rest of his breakfast to return to the outside world. Don then collapsed backward into hollow oblivion—somewhere between slumber and unconsciousness. His head lay on Alan’s shoulder and remained there for hours, but Alan didn’t mind. It gave solace to Don’s exhausted subconscious, and that was worth every stiff muscle that would follow.

~~~~~

Don was roused by the strong scent of pomegranates. He stirred sluggishly, running a hand through his unruly dark hair as he sat up. A glass of water sat on the nightstand, crystals of condensation indicating that it was still tantalizingly cold.  There were two ibuprofen pills also. Don swallowed the meds slowly, trying to recall when he’d last been awake.

The memory function in his brain was indistinct, but Don seemed to recall a ghastly session of vomiting and the sensation of an F-2000 assault rifle blasting holes in his skull. Now the pain had lessened somewhat, leaving him physically and emotionally drained.

But what was that scent of pomegranates? Don sniffed again, realizing with surprise that it was coming from his carpet. Don didn’t know why his carpet smelled like that, but he found that he liked it.

Don startled abruptly. Had his dad been here with him, or was that part of an intensely detailed dream? He called out hesitantly, but no one answered. Don shook his head in bewilderment. He couldn’t recall very much of the dream—all he knew was that Dad was holding him like when he was a child. He hadn’t hugged Dad in ages, and he eventually decided that it must still feel pretty good. The dream sure had.


End file.
